The Last to Vanish(46)

Ten years, he repeated. There was something off about him, the way he circled around a question, repeated my responses. But I had to relieve Georgia from her shift, and I couldn’t think of a reason to ask him to go.

Later that night, after I had closed up the lobby for the evening and had just come downstairs, I heard someone trying the back door. Our private entrance. The one hidden under the deck. I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I unlocked the door myself and peered into the night, but whoever it was must’ve heard me coming and fled. I couldn’t say for sure it was him—guests sometimes tried other doors, exploring the grounds. Though I believed, in that moment, that it was.



* * *



IN THE LOBBY, GEORGIA was moving around, running her fingers over each surface, checking under tables, around the stacks of logs beside the fireplace. Her purse was on the surface of the registration desk, like she’d just come in, though she’d probably been out here for hours.

“Hey,” I called. “No luck?”

“I’ve checked everywhere up here. Even the restroom, just in case.”

The binder usually held copies of the credit cards we made with the slide under the desk. It held checkin and checkout data, license plate numbers, daily orders to the Last Stop for happy hour, our tally of walking sticks. We usually kept it locked up in the back office, but now I couldn’t remember where I’d left it last night when I’d rushed out—trying to match the Instagram photo from the AliceKellyWasHere account to my bag.

I shuddered, remembering the image of Alice Kelly looking over her shoulder, like she was peering right back at me. Do you see me?

“I can’t remember if I put it away,” I said, running my hands through my damp hair. I saw her gaze trailing my fingers, her eyes flitting around the room, like the binder might still magically appear.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used it—when the group of six returned from their hike, maybe? Dropping their sticks, exchanging them for a first aid kit and the number for urgent care?

I started searching the areas I might’ve left it—under the desk, in the drawers of the back office. “I already checked,” Georgia said, following behind and clearly irritated, instead of the creeping dread I was starting to feel.

“Shit,” I said, standing back, hands on hips. “I don’t think it’s in the apartment, but I’ll look.” The final moments of last night had been a blur. “I’ll try to recover what we can during my shift. For now, just start a blank one for checkin and checkout.”

She shifted her jaw back and forth. “Do you think someone took it?”

The only thing of value inside were the credit card copies; someone would’ve had to know what they were looking for. I blinked at her slowly. “Is anything else missing?”

Her eyes widened, and my stomach plummeted. I knew we had the same worry: the keys; the safe. I opened the cabinets and my shoulders relaxed—the safe was locked and secure.

“Looks like everything’s still here,” I said. Luckily, Georgia and I each had a copy of the key to the safe, and it seemed I’d left that one secure, at least.

“I probably just misplaced it,” I said. Though I couldn’t imagine where it could be.

“Or someone thought it was an extra guidebook,” Georgia offered, biting the side of her thumbnail.

I nodded, wanting it to be true.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching me in the night. Who had noticed when I’d left the lobby unsecured. Who had rifled through things while I’d been falling apart downstairs.

I thought, once more, of Trey West. Maybe he was more similar to his brother than even he knew. Digging and digging, in need of answers, by any means necessary.

“Sorry to wake you this morning,” Georgia said.

“I was up. Just have some personal errands to run today.”

I left it at that, heading back for the apartment, where I did a cursory search of the surfaces, even though I knew the binder wouldn’t be there. I’d barely made it past the front closet last night.

Then I hooked Alice’s bag onto my back, grabbed my keys, and headed for my car.

I slipped the bag into the back seat of the sedan, the inside stale and stifling. I felt too hot, like I was hungover, even though I’d only had the one glass of wine.

I turned the key in the ignition, but all that happened was a faint, low-pitched buzzing. I leaned my head back against the headrest, squeezed my eyes shut. I tried the ignition again but got the same result. The engine, as long predicted, was dead.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, slamming the front door behind me, pacing back and forth beside the car.

Georgia’s midsize SUV was parked beside mine. I’d never driven it before, but I didn’t think she’d mind. I strode up the incline to the front entrance, where Georgia was currently helping a guest check out.

I slipped in beside her at the registration desk, caught her eye, reached my hand into her purse, and pulled out her keys. I need to borrow your car, I mouthed.

Her face remained frozen, like she couldn’t process what was happening. “Oh,” she said, one hand in my direction.

“Be right back,” I said, and she smiled, running her fingers through her short hair, turning back to the guests.

Her key had an automated lock, and the car beeped in the drive. I moved Alice’s bag from the back of my car to Georgia’s.